


I'll be upon you by the moonlight side

by loracarol



Series: I'm lost and I'm found [3]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Body Horror, F/M, Gen, Prologue, Werewolf AU, bg canon ships, mentions of alcohol/drug use, oblique sexual references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-05-01 01:03:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14509122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loracarol/pseuds/loracarol
Summary: It's a werewolf AU y'all.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to [PartTwo](https://parttwotriestowrite.tumblr.com/) for being my beta reader. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated making this longer, but I figured (1) others have written better versions of Imelda’s rise to shoe making dominance then I and (2) y’all probably want me to get to the werewolf-centric stuff. ;)
> 
> Consider this more… A Prologue, or a bridge.

The first year is the longest for Imelda. She makes ends meet as best as she can, saving and scrimping what little money Héctor is able to send her, taking in washing and mending and anything she can so she can provide for herself and Coco.

 

Then the letters stop.

 

The money stops.

 

At first she wonders if he got hurt, if something happened to him, but she dismisses that when Ernesto doesn’t write, when she receives no message. After all, as much as she disliked the man, he was still Héctor’s best friend, no? He was the best man at their wedding, he was Coco’s _tio_. If anything had happened, surely he’d say something?

 

It’s a long, hard year, and she takes stock of her options. She’s still technically married to Héctor, even if he’s gone, and even if she wasn’t, she didn’t _want_ to remarry. There aren’t a lot of people people will to take her on as an apprentice, not a mere woman, but she finds kinship with the shoemaker. Old, losing his eyesight, and with children all dead in the revolution, he takes Imelda under his wing, and teaches her all he knows. It’s not easy, but it is _something_ , and when that long, hard year is up, she looks at the shoes she has made with her own two hands and thinks to herself, “This, this I can do.”     

 

_\-----_

 

All the years for Héctor are hard, but it’s the first year that hits him the hardest, while he’s still reeling from the transformation and all that it entails. He has a hard time remembering exactly what happened, when he’s leaving the city, trying to get out to the wildlands. He tries to remember and all he gets is the overwhelming sense of _pain_ and blood. He has the same fog over his memories from when he broken his leg at age ten; the pain erasing everything else.

 

There are a lot of maybes, but Héctor is panicked, and focusing on runrunrunrunrunrunrun _RUN_ and he can’t stop there is _danger_.

 

It isn’t until he’s stopped, finally _safe_ that he realizes he smells of blood.

 

And, to his horror, he can tell that some it’s not his.

 

Some of it is _Ernesto’s_.

 

The realization hits him like a brick, and he trips over himself in the dark. There’s a whimpering sound, and he realizes it’s from him after far too long. He hasn’t sounded like that since he was a child. He wants to howl and gnash his teeth, but he holds it in. He doesn’t know how far away from the city he is, and he is _scared_.   

 

Standing up is harder than it should be, long legs catching and tripping over each other. Before he had been running on pure instinct, some part of _Héctor_ hiding under what it means to be _a wolf_.  

 

It’s harder than it should be, but Héctor tries to hold onto himself, to hold onto what makes him _him_ and not whatever he’s been cursed as.  

 

He needs to get home.

 

He needs to get home to Imelda and to Coco.

 

It runs through his veins like lightning; he has to get _home_. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do when he gets there - and wouldn’t Imelda just have his head if she knew he didn’t have a plan? But he had never anticipated _this_.

 

 _Ay dios_.

 

And what will he do when he gets home? Thoughts flash through his mind. He’s still himself. He could sing - howl - bark? What all sounds do wolves make anyway? He could find a way to make himself _known_ to her, he still has his songs.

 

But he has to get home.     

 

He has to stand up first.

 

Then, one foot in front of the other.

 

It’s hard, and that’s just _the beginning_ of his first year.

 

The first time he has to eat something, is even worse. He doesn’t know how to hunt; hadn’t even learned as a human. And when the prey he chokes down tastes _good_ he wants to scream.

 

It’s raw, it’s bones, it’s blood, it’s organs and the smell is _intoxicating_.

 

Still, he chokes it down.

 

He can’t sing Coco’s song anymore, not properly, but he still sings in his own way, every night at the same time. He wouldn’t be able to say why he knows the time, or how, but it’s in every fiber of his being as he follows the train tracks out of Mexico City and prays that he doesn’t get lost.  

 

 _Home_.

 

It’s hard, he can barely walk let alone run, at first, and feeding himself is a chore, but he’ll get there. _He has to_.

 

\-----

 

Ernesto has few concerns the first year. That isn’t to say he has no concerns; the state of his hands is worrying. The beast had managed to cut deep enough that the medico says he has nerve damage, and at least three fingers were broken. He has wounds on his face that will heal, but leave their mark, and a slight limp from where he’d landed wrong as he fell. He is a mess of damage waiting to heal.   

 

But ah. He _will heal._

__

 

He first leaves Mexico City filled with bitterness, hating that he has to return to Santa Cecelia, but as he flips through Héctor’s books, he puts that bitterness aside and is blinded by bright hopes of an even brighter future. He has Héctor’s guitar, Héctor’s music, and a fool’s belief in his own immortality. He has no reason to believe otherwise; everything so far has worked out for him. There were some bumps, but he just needs some time to get his hands limber again, and everything will be fine.  

 

* * *

 

Everything Ernesto believed in starts to twist the second year. His hands, while getting better, don’t have strength to hold the strings down on the frets without shaking. The scar across his face makes him look less “roguish” and more “monstrous”. It’s tight, and it cuts across the muscles in his face, making it hard for him to sing with the same flair as he used to. He runs into things when he isn’t careful; he’s tripped more then once, and more then once in public.

 

But he refuses to give up.

 

The year is long, but he _refuses_ to give up. He stretches his hands the way he was taught by the _medico_ before he left. He rubs concoctions into his face; aloes, fats from the butcher, even women’s lotions that leave him to be mocked by the people in the town. He takes to cocaine religiously, following the doctor’s instructions at first, then using more as it begins to be less effective, and using alcohol to cover the pain that’s left.   

He’s running out of money, his and Héctor’s - running out of money for the lotions, for food, for alcohol, for cocaine - when it hits him.

 

This isn’t going to be quick.

 

He had thought - hoped - dreamed - that he’d be ready to go in a month or two, but as he curses at his hand, he knows that isn’t the case. He’ll need another source of income until he can go back to his goals.  

 

He _could_ sell Héctor’s guitar, he knows. With its mother of pearl, and with its intricate carvings, he could sell it easily, and for a good amount, but no. It’s _his_ guitar, by rights. Héctor left him, had left him, was going to leave him. Ernesto was left alone with the scars, with the _pain_. He _deserved_ the guitar.

 

Ernesto ends up brewing _mezcal_. It’s embarrassing, but it’s easy, and he can do it with the pain in his limbs.

 

He can also drink what’s left over.

 

But he’s not a drunk - that would be… _Pathetic_. And Ernesto de la Cruz is many things, but never _that_.

 

\-----

 

Imelda thought the year Héctor left would be the hardest, but she was wrong. In that first year, she still had people’s pity, still had credit at the store, still could sell his instruments for food for Coco. The second year, people start to wonder. Why hasn’t she taken a new husband? Why has she apprenticed herself to the shoemaker? Why does she think her shoes will be worth it?

 

She has to fight and claw for every scrap of respect, for even _one person_ to buy a pair of her shoes, let alone two, let alone enough to have a _business_.  Luckily her brothers' are there, having joined her as soon as they had heard.

 

And she continues to fight, to _demand_ to be taken seriously.

 

It’s a hard year as she forces people to take her seriously. As she works her hardest to keep Coco fed, keep her in clothing that fits. The leather she receives from her teacher isn’t the best quality, but it’s a start, and she does her research into who sells the best, and she makes _plans_.

 

She doesn’t speak to Ernesto de la Cruz. He returns, scarred and angry, and she avoids him. Even if he had answers for her, she doesn’t know if she wants to hear them.

 

She doesn’t speak to Ernesto de la Cruz, but he speaks to her, leaving the bar at two p.m. on a Tuesday as drunk as he ever is.

 

“It’s all _his_ fault.” He hisses, swaying. “Héctor _left me_ and then I was _attacked_.” Imelda wants to scream at him - Héctor left _Ernesto_ ? What about Héctor leaving his wife? His child? Ernesto was the one who convinced him to leave, it was all _his_ fault.

 

 _Every night Coco sings to her Papa_. She wants to scream. Coco still _believes_ in him in a way that only a child can.

 

Imelda wants to scream all these things, but she doesn’t. She already has to work _so hard_ to get respect; she refuses to lose even the slightest bit by getting into a screaming match, no matter how tempting it seems.

 

Héctor may have abandoned the family, but Imelda will be damned before she gives up on protecting what’s left.

 

\-----

 

It takes Héctor a long time to be used to being a wolf, to walking, to running, to hiding, to eating. In over a year, he doesn’t make it home, even though he tries. After all, Héctor isn’t sure how to get home, isn’t sure he’s on the right track. That’s when he makes his mistake. He gets too close to people, too close to a city, to try and orient himself. He’s been following train tracks, but sometimes those go through places he can’t follow. Sometimes he has to guess which set of tracks he was following when they go through towns and split. He knows that home is - was - south and east, and he knows which way the sun rises and sets, but he doesn’t have a map, doesn’t know exactly where he is.

 

He’s too close to the city, trying to figure out what town it is, when a group of soldier’s spots him. He doesn’t know why they’re there, what they’re doing, but it doesn’t matter when they spot him and start taking shots. They have decent guns, and are on horseback as they chase him through the forest. He thinks he smells alcohol, as they chase him, wooping and yelling with unbridled glee. There’s a shot, then another and another and anotherandanotherand -

 

He’s lucky, the bullets don’t all hit him, but he takes one, two, _three_ as they sweep around him and he panics. He knows how to run as a human, but human instincts just get in the _way_ as he skitters away from the aim of one gun, and barrels into a tree. Shaking his head, he gets up and keeps going - _four -_ as he notes the smell of a river. Maybe he’ll get lucky, maybe he can - _five_ \- cross somewhere and get away - _six misses but just barely._

 

He reaches the edge of the river, swollen from fall storms. Héctor balks. It’s wide; it’s dangerous. He might not make it.

 

He hears the sounds of hooves behind him, and there isn’t much time. He paces, whining, as he tries to find a secure hold on the other side; tries to see if there’s anywhere the the river narrows. There’s a glint of silver as a man raises a gun, and the wolf sees no other option; Héctor won’t fight them, he _won’t_ be a man killer, so he turns around and he _jumps_.

 

The bank is muddy, and the bullet wounds in his legs make the jump unsteady. He just misses the bank, and has to fight to keep his balance. He goes under, once.

 

The wolf makes his way to the bank, and shakes himself off before lopping further into the woods.

 

He finds a hollow in the roots of a tree, and limps into it. He licks his wounds as the bullets are pushed out and they begin to heal; he is not a normal wolf. He has no pack, but he howls that night, and every night, because even though he’s forgotten everything else, he knows he had one once, and that it’s important. This is his life that year; hunt, eat, sleep, sing, repeat. He has no goal other than _survive_. He has nowhere he needs to be but his territory, his den.

 

The second year is the easiest for the wolf. After all, that’s all he needs to be, and nothing more.

 

And he’s _very_ good at being a wolf.            

 

* * *

 

It’s in the third year that Ernesto finally gives up. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, and he would hate himself for it if Héctor wasn’t already such an easy target. His hands still shake when he tries to do play guitar. He still hasn’t regained all the strength in his hands, and the scar is still tight across his face when he tries to sing.  

 

He almost smashes the guitar, be he stops himself every time. It’s his trophy, and _no one_ will take it away from him. He paid for it in blood, it is _his_.

 

Rumors begin to swirl about him in the marketplace, but he ignores them. He makes good _mezcal_ , they can keep their noses out of the rest of his life. Kids whisper when they see him, and they avoid him as much as possible, and he _likes_ it that way. They believe him to be a monster, but he’s not the monster. That _beast_ who threw him away - he’s the real monster. Ernesto is just a victim of circumstance, nothing more.    

 

\-----

 

Business begins to pick up the third year. _Rivera Zapataria_ got a boost when one of the men in town bought a pair of her boots on a lark. Imelda knows it was a joke, that the goal was to embarrass her, but if that man thought he’d be getting second-rate boots, then the joke was on him.

 

She brings him the boots while he’s at the market, in front of other people, and she demands a fair price. The man laughs at her, they all do, but he agrees to a wager. If the boots fit as perfectly as Imelda claims, he owes her double.

 

She goes home with extra money for the first time in _months_ , along with the promises of the other men that they’ll come by to purchase boots.

 

Business picks up, and for the first time in years, her life is, if not _easy_ , it’s _easier_. She has a routine, she has helpers, and she has _customers_. Coco gets new dresses that actually fit her properly, they all get real food on the table, three meals a day - even if one of the meals tends to be leftovers. She even splurges on a vase of _jacarandas_. Her favorite flower, she refuses to let the fact that _he_ used to give them to her ruin her love for them. She’ll buy herself flowers.   

 

For the first time in years she’s not just surviving, she is _thriving_.

 

No thanks to _him_.   

 

\-----

 

The winters in Mexico are mild, but the wolf still has trouble. The big game is scarce - if he was Héctor, he’d know it was due to the aftereffects of the revolution, but he isn’t. All the wolf knows is that game is scarce, and he goes hungry more often than not. He avoids human settlements as best as he can, staying as stealthy as possible.

 

And every night he sings.

 

He can’t remember why, only that it’s Important, that it has to do with Pack. He doesn’t have a Pack, he’s by himself, but he has a feeling that wasn’t always the case, and maybe if he sings, he’ll find them again.

 

Springtime comes, and so do the _jacarandas_ , and when he smells them he’s hit with the sense of _packmatefindwhere?_ that practically knocks him down. Deep down he thinks _Imelda_ and while he doesn’t _remember_ \- he’s been the wolf too long for that - he _knows_ that home exists, and that he needs to _get there_.

 

Wherever there is.

 

It’s not even a full thought that crosses his mind, more like a feeling, but he feels _south_ and _along the paths-that-smell-like-burning_.

 

And he begins to walk.

 

He is iron drawn to a lodestone. He has _Packmate_ out there, and he needs to find her. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he saw _Pack_ , just that he needs to _go_.

 

It’s a long year, made longer by the fact that he has no idea where he needs to go beyond vague feelings.

 

But sometimes the wind will hit his nose just right and he’ll smell _jacarandas_. Sometimes the sky at sunset hits a purple that he finds familiar. The curve of a river reminds him of the curve of a _???_ It reminds him of _something_ , and so he goes.

 

It’s not until winter that things begin to feel familiar. The desert, the shape of the mountains against the sky. The scent of the river. It’s a long year, but there is game here, a herd of prey animals just waiting in the open for him to take, so take one he does.  


	2. Chapter 1

Over the year, Imelda continued to see the wolf, though never under circumstances as terrifying of their first meeting. A glimpse of him through the trees, tufts of fur in the bushes, eyes in the twilight. Those were all she saw, and she found herself ever so grateful that it was never anything more then that. 

 

She told herself that - that it was never anything more then that.

 

At first, it was only her that actually saw the beast, but as time went on, it became obvious to the village that they had a visitor, of sorts. (Even though, if village gossip was correct, she was seeing the beast three to four more times than anyone else.)

 

(Even if some of her sightings would have people calling her _crazy_ , and treating her like Ernesto.)

 

Ernesto protested in the bar, in the village square, anywhere that he could be heard, that the wolf was dangerous, and they needed to kill it.

 

“I was attacked by a wolf! And now he’s followed me to finish me off!” He claimed, gesturing at his scarred visage.

 

Of course, his original story was that he was beset upon by thugs, so most people brushed him off. Especially when began to go into the wolf following _him_. Eventually, as much as the wolf had frightened Imelda, Ernesto’s insistence left a bitter taste in her mouth, and she ended up hoping that the _lobo_ survived, just to spite the man.

 

She ended up getting her wish, though it was a double edged sword; no one in Santa Cecilia had the weaponry necessary to defeat a wolf of that size. The mayor did end up writing to the capitol for help, (at Ernesto’s insistence), but the letter they got back made it clear that (1) their reports of a wolf of that size were considered an innocent mistake at best, a foolish lie at worst, and (2) they didn’t want to waste their time and bullets unless the so-called “wolf” was actually killing people. And even then, it was a gamble.

 

So the wolf survived, and they tried to live with it, and Imelda kept a watch out for eyes in the dark.

 

Though, she had to note, he was surprisingly polite, for a wolf. And sometimes his _eyes_ …

 

She found herself having dreams of Héctor again; memories that she thought she had locked away. Dreams that reminded her of the good times they had had; dreams where she woke up with an ache she refused to acknowledge.

 

She hated it.

 

At least Coco had started to make some friends; for some time there had been a stigma around Imelda, and while she had never let it show how it bothered her, Coco’s shunning by the village children was painful. Her daughter had done _nothing_ wrong.

 

But the war had left its mark, and a new family had moved into Santa Cecilia. The Pérez’s knew what it was like to have an unusual family situation; Señor and Señora Pérez had taken in their daughter-in-law and grandchildren after the rest of the family had died. Their granddaughter was just about Coco’s age, and it wasn’t long before Coco and Rosita were fast friends. Imelda could have wept from relief.

 

\-----

 

“Mamá, can I go over and visit Rosita?” Coco asked, “She’s not feeling very good, and her _tía_ promised to tell her stories if she would stay quietly in bed.“

 

Rosita’s Aunt Silvia would tell them the stories she grew up with, and while Coco tended to enjoy them, Imelda raised one eyebrow, “She isn’t going to tell you more stories about the wolves, is she?” She asked.

 

“I only had nightmares _once_ ,” Coco pouted. “Besides, I asked her about wolves.”

 

Imelda sighed. Of course Coco had. She was as aware of the wolf as everyone else in Santa Cecilia, and Coco was her ~~father’s~~ mother’s daughter. “Just… Try and ask for something else?” She said, “I have a large order I need to fill, and I’ll need to sleep tonight.”

 

Coco fidgeted with her dress. “I can stay home, Mamá, if you need help.”

 

Imelda weighed that though over in her mind. “I might need you later,” Imelda acknowledged, “But since Rosita is sick, you may visit her. Come back at lunch to check in.”

 

“Thank you Mamà!” Coco said, “And I’ll tell Tía Silvia that we want to hear only a _little_ bit about wolves today!” Imelda groaned, and hoped that Coco kept to her word - the last time Silvia had told Coco about shapechangers, Coco had been up half the night, crying hysterically, not helped by the howling of that damned wolf outside their city. The older woman had meant well; but she hadn’t had to deal with Coco that night.   

 

 _“What if they’re just_ _**lonely**?” Coco had said, at one point during her breakdown. _

 

_“What makes you think shape changers are lonely?” Imelda had asked, hugging Coco close, and wiping away tears._

 

_“I’d be lonely,” Coco whispered in the dark, “What if that happened to me? I’d be stuck in the woods, by myself, and you wouldn’t recognize me anymore.”_

 

_“Shh,” Imelda had whispered, “I’d always recognize you. And I’d come get you.”_

 

_“Tía Silvia did say that sometimes you could call a person back,” Coco had said, yawning, “but I had to come home  before I could hear how.”_

 

 _“ **How** doesn't matter, I’d do it.” Imelda replied, trying not to frown as Coco hummed to herself. Music still hurt, but her child was hurting worse. It was what **he**_ _used to do whenever Coco had a nightmare. But **he**_ _wasn’t there, he had **left** _ them _. But Imelda said nothing; anything to help Coco get to sleep was worth it in her eyes. Especially with the order she had to finish._

 

Imelda sighed. It was that wolf. He had everyone on edge. And what was worse… He barely even _did_ anything! Some chickens here, a sheep there, watching Imelda whenever she had to leave the confines of the town… But those were _small_ things. Oh not the smallest; the farmers were upset, but on the face of what could be?

 

Imelda shook her head, before taking the braid in her hair, and tying it up in a knot. Her brothers would be home soon; she’d awoken late, to find that they’d already started on the morning errands. She was grateful, though she hoped that they stuck to her normal routine, and didn’t go off on crazy goose chases; she had shoes to make, and a child to feed, and she didn’t have the time for any distractions.

 

\-----

 

Imelda frowned as she brushed her hair before going to bed. The day had gone well, and it was making her nervous. She didn’t _have_ good days, not without fighting for them. The wolf outside howled, and she dropped her brush. She sighed as she picked it up. She really ought to be used to his howling... 

 

* * *

 

Imelda woke up the next morning feeling exhausted. Coco had slept through the night without any nightmares, though Imelda couldn’t say the same. She couldn’t remember them, so she shoved the residual fear to the side, and got up. Her brothers hadn’t really had breakfast, but they’d put out some of the leftovers from dinner, and Coco was eating happily, so could she really complain?

 

“Mamá, can I go visit Rosita again?” Coco said, swinging her legs. She was impatient; she’d tried to braid her own hair, and while she was getting better, Imelda wanted nothing more but to reach out and redo the braids.

 

“Is she still not feeling well?” Imelda asked, frowning. Rosita was just barely younger than Coco, and she knew the heartbreak of having a sick child.

 

“She’s doing better, but her abuela wants her to stay in bed one more day, just in case, and she’s really bored.”

 

Imelda went over the orders in her mind. She’d gotten quite a lot done the previous day, and there was a backlog of shoes that needed to be polished or oiled. She had been expecting Coco’s help with that. On the other hand, they’d gotten far enough that, if one of her brothers helped...

 

“Not until after lunch, at the earliest,” Imelda said, smoothing down her skirt. “We need to get through the pile of shoes I started yesterday. But maybe after lunch, depending on how far we get. Oscar, Felipe, who wants to help her?”

 

As Imelda’s brothers bargained with each other over who got to do what, Coco said, “Thank you Mamá!” She then added, as seriously as she could, “Rosita thanks you, too.”

 

“If she’s anything like you, I’m sure she does.”

 

\-----

 

Coco didn’t get to leave until late after lunch, much to her frustration.

 

“These shoes are _important_ ,” Imelda found herself saying more than once.

 

“I _know_ ,” Coco said, “I just wish…”  

 

Imelda cut her off. She knew what Coco was going to wish, but she couldn’t bear it. “Finish that pair, then you can go, as long as you’re back for dinner.”

 

\-----

 

Coco wasn’t back in time for dinner, and Imelda couldn’t wait anymore. The sky would be getting dark soon. She cursed the fact that she herself had lost track of time as she worked. If only she had been paying attention! She had left her workshop late, and Coco was later then that - it was terrifying.

 

“Oscar, Felipe, stay here in case she shows up,” Imelda said swallowing hard, and, taking off her apron. “I’m going to go see if she’s still with Rosita.”

 

\-----

 

Imelda was half-way to Rosita’s house when she was accosted by Señor Padilla.

 

“Señora Rivera! Please, come quick!” The man said, breathing deep, gasping breaths. "It's Coco!" 

 

Imelda’s heart fell into her stomach, as she asked, “Where?”  

 

“The town square-”

 

Imelda didn’t even let the man finish, as she picked up her skirts, and ran in a most unladylike fashion towards the center of town.

 

She got there to find a small crowd, with Ernesto in the middle, his hand tangled through Coco’s hair, as he tried to pull her upright, and Coco just sobbed. He held a broken off mezcal bottle in his other hand, and Imelda could see a blood spatter on Coco’s dress, though she couldn’t see any injuries.

 

“Ernesto, what the hell are you doing?” She called out, stepping forward, and looking for something she could use as a weapon.

 

“Your little _puta_ was in my house!” He snarled, hurling Coco towards Imelda. His eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled of alcohol. “You need to control her better Imelda,” his tone took on a crueler edge, “If _only_ you had a _husband_ to help out.”

 

The crowd shifted, and Imelda saw a couple of the larger men start to ease their way towards Ernesto, wary of the makeshift weapon he carried.  

 

Imelda ignored Ernesto. She’d had the practice. “Coco, what were you thinking?” She snapped, but before she could go on, Coco said -

 

“He has Papà’s guitar!”

 

\- and Imelda stopped dead.

 

“She’s lying!” Ernesto shouted, lunging towards the two of them, he was caught by the sheriff, who grabbed Ernesto, and held him back. 

 

“No I’m not!” Coco said, voice trembling. “I saw it!”

 

“Shut up!” Ernesto said, struggling hard enough that the blacksmith had to join the sheriff. “ _Hija de puta_ , you don’t know  _anything_!”

 

“What were you even doing in his house?” Imelda snapped, heart racing. It was probably a coincidence; Ernesto had told her (shouted at her) that Héctor had taken his guitar, and abandoned him. It was probably just a normal guitar, and Coco just had memories of her Papá playing the instrument.

 

Out of the corner of her eye she could see a young boy sneak around the edges of the confrontation, carrying a guitar case. Her eyes narrowed in recognition. “Julio, get over here, _ahora_!” The boy flinched, but stopped his sneaking, and walked up to the group, guitar case in hand, and his face red. Ernesto let out a bellow of rage, but Imelda continued to tune him out. “Julio,” she snapped, “What is the _meaning_ of this?”

 

The crowd seemed to hold their breath as Julio shrunk into himself. “P-perdón, Señora Rivera,” he said, eyes flicking about the crowd.

 

“Out with it.” She demanded, checking Coco’s head for any injuries. “Just look at me, Julio.” She added, when the boy still stalled, the crowds too much.

 

Julio swallowed, and met her gaze. “I was talking-” Coco snorted at that “-with some boys, and they dared me to go into the mon-,” his eyes flicked over at Ernesto, “ _his_ house. Coco caught the tail end of the… Talk, and decided,” he took his straw hat off, and began to worry the brim, “she decided she would go with me.” He took a deep breath. “We got there, and managed to get in, and we were quiet about it, but Coco saw this guitar, and started to yell.” Julio fidget again, “She said it was her Papá’s guitar, and then he found us, and he dragged her out of the house yelling. He didn’t really notice me. Um.” He paused, and swallowed, “It’s a really fancy guitar, so I thought I ought to show it to you, in case it was true?”

 

It didn’t matter if people were talking or not, because Imelda was trapped in bubble where the only thing she could hear was her own heartbeat. Letting go of Coco, she felt like she was drifting over to the guitar case, people stepping aside for her as she walked. Kneeling down, she opened it. The first thing she acknowledged was the _HR_ she had embroidered onto a fabric scrap, before sewing that into the lining of the case.

 

The second thing was the guitar.

 

She _knew_ that guitar.

 

She had given it to Héctor as a wedding gift.

 

 _But Ernesto had said - **curse**_ _all he had said!_ “Ernesto, what did you do to my husband?” She asked, standing up, and cradling the guitar close.

 

Ernesto spit on the ground, “ _Puta_ , that’s my guitar, _put it down_.”

 

“You said he took his guitar and left you,” Imelda continued, as though he hadn’t spoke. She felt like she was in a haze; her mind was running faster as a train and she couldn’t keep up. “Why do you have it?”

 

“That’s. My. Guitar.” Ernesto said again, before speaking to the crowd, “Please, she’s hysterical, I reacted poorly, but that girl broke into my home, surely you understand!”

 

Imelda sat, still holding the guitar, hands brushing against the mother of pearl inlay, as her mind whirred through all the possible answers. None of them were good.

 

“You forget,” someone in the crowd snapped, and Imelda looked up. “Some of us were _at_ their wedding, and we remember.”  

 

It was like the flood opened.

 

“He used to bring it out for special events,” someone muttered.

 

“He played it at my wedding,” another voice said.

 

“He played it for my daughter’s birthday,” said yet another.

 

“He wouldn’t have parted with it.” Imelda said, voice low. “Not willingly.”

 

The sun was getting lower, and casting long shadows across the town. Imelda shivered, from that, or from her racing thoughts, she couldn’t say. “Ernesto, what did you _do_?” She asked again, ice in her veins.

 

The wolf outside of town howled, and Ernesto seemed to join it in his own way, falling to the ground and laughing bitterly, realizing he was caught. “There’s your husband,” he said, sneering. “He tried to leave, so I slipped something into his drink. He was none the wiser. You’re the wife of a _beast_.”

 

“Enough,” the sheriff said in the shocked silence that followed, hauling Ernesto up with the help of some of the other men. They started to march Ernesto towards the police station, dragging him when he tried to refuse. He was cursing Imelda and Coco out the whole time. The sheriff went to follow, before pausing, and turning back towards Imelda. “He’ll be spending some time in jail,” he said, “We all saw what he was doing to your daughter. She may have broken in, but she’s a child; the way he reacted was…” He broke off, and shook his head. “I don’t have children yet, but I have a niece.”

 

Imelda couldn’t bring herself to say anything, as she put the guitar back in it’s case with trembling hands.

 

The sheriff continued, eyes flicking to the vast darkness outside of town. “As for the rest… Even if he’s _loco_ , he just admitted to trying to hurt your husband, and he stole the guitar. We’ll question him about it.” He raised his voice, “Everyone else, go back home.”

 

As the crowd began to disperse, Imelda stayed where she had knelt. Ernesto was _loco_. He had to be.

 

Didn’t he?

 

 _But the wolf’s eyes_.

 

And he had never attacked her, even when he was obviously hungry. He just watched with large brown eyes that reminded her of her husband’s.  

 

Maybe she was the one who was loco, for even thinking about Ernesto’s claim.

 

“Julio,” she said, closing the case. “I need to speak with your Tía Silvia. Is she available?”

 

Julio was standing with Coco, and while they weren’t hugging exactly, they were standing very close together, and Julio had given Coco his jacket. It would have been cute under any other circumstances.

 

“She should be,” Julio said hat still in hand. “Do you want me to tell her you’ll be stopping by?”

 

“Yes, please.” Imelda said, picking up the guitar case. “Come along Coco, but give Julio his coat back first.”

 

“It’s okay,” Julio said, turning red, “she can just give it to me later.”

 

Imelda wasn’t in the mood to argue, even about something as small as that, so she let it go. Carrying the guitar in one hand, Imelda held onto Coco’s hand as tight as she dared, and they walked home.

 

“They weren’t talking,” Coco said, fidgeting with the end of Julio’s sleeve.

 

“Hm?”

 

“I mean,” Coco continued, “Julio wasn’t talking with the other boys, they were being mean to him, so I told him I’d go too.”

 

Imelda shook her head. Her daughter was sometimes far too willing to stand up for what she believed in. “Are you okay, mija?” She said instead, giving Coco another once over.

 

“I think so,” Coco said, rubbing tears away from her face. “He grabbed my hair really hard, but the blood came from when he tried to break the bottle.”

 

“Don’t ever do that again.”

 

“He was scary.” Coco said, curling up against Imelda as best she could while they still walked.

 

“Yeah, he was,” Imelda said, thoughts spiraling. She had seen a cold side of Ernesto before, but never anything so dark. Had he always had that dark side to him? Was that why Héctor had never made it home?

 

By the time they got to their house, Coco was falling asleep, despite no dinner. Imelda opened the door to her brothers, both waiting on chairs set up so they’d see her as soon as she walked in.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Is that a guitar?”

 

“Don’t.” Imelda said, shaking her head. “Just, please, put Coco to bed. I have to go speak to Tía Silvia. I’ll be back later.”

 

“How much later?” Came from both of her brothers at once.

 

“I don’t know. But don’t worry about me.” She grabbed a shawl from where it was hanging, and she put it on. “I’ll be back tonight. Just, for now, take care of Coco.”

 

Her brothers nodded, and she stepped out the door, and back into the night.

 

She wasn’t completely _loco_ ; she was going to do her research first, and she… Honestly had no idea who else to ask.

 

And if Ernesto _was_ just making things up… What had _actually_ happened to Héctor? Even if he had left Ernesto, like the man claimed, he would have taken his guitar! She hurried through the streets, thinking on the one subject she’d tried hardest to avoid.

 

 _Héctor_.

 

* * *

 

Julio was waiting for her, as was his _tía_. As soon as Imelda showed up, Julio slipped inside, giving her a shy nod as he did so.

 

“Julio told me what happened,” Silvia said without preamble. She was a slight woman, older then Imelda though not elderly, and she had the look of someone who’d lost too many people. “I only tell them _stories_ , I don’t know why you want to talk to me.” But, she still led Imelda to some seats set up outside, and a small table.

 

“Coco said you believe them.” Imelda pointed out, taking the offered seat.

 

“I learned them from my grandmother who learned them from her grandmother. Of course _I_ believe them. That still doesn’t explain why _you’re_ here.”

 

Imelda sat, hands clenched. _Wasn’t it obvious?_ “I want to hear what you’ve been telling Coco.” She said, tension present in every line of her body.

 

“You don’t think Ernesto was telling the truth, do you?” Silvia said, fingering the rosary she was holding. Imelda didn’t respond, and Silvia took that as an invitation to keep talking. “Imelda, the stories say that the only way to save a werewolf is for someone to face it. But if you go to face that monster, and it’s just a beast - what will happen to Coco if it hurts you? If it kills you?”

 

“It won’t.” Imelda said, faintly, though she remembered the fear from their first meeting.

 

“Trying to commit suicide is a _mortal sin_ ,” Silvia insisted. “And with a monster that size, what else could you expect?”

 

Imelda shook her head. “I’ve seen the wolf,” she admitted.

 

“So has half the town,” Silvia pointed out, but she leaned back, and waited to hear what else Imelda had to say.

 

“Yes, but I’ve seen him more times then half the town combined,” Imelda said, wishing she had a pair of shoes to work on, or _something_. She was nervous, and she hated being nervous. “I came across him eating one of Señor García’s cows, and I yelled at it.”

 

“ _Madre de Dios_!”  


Imelda ignored the outburst, and continued. “I told it that I needed those cows, and he stopped taking them. Did you notice how he started to only take sheep, and goats?”

 

Silvia blinked, tilting her head. “I thought it was just a coincidence…” She said, “Go on.”

 

“Sometimes I would see him running along my cart when I was traveling between town and some of the outer farms.” Imelda said, “But he never came too close, and he never tried to attack, not once. And did you notice? He’s never attacked a person. Even though he’s skinnier than a stray dog, and only taking down small animals. And.” She stopped, and fidgeted, as she tried to take a deep breath. “I’ve never told anyone this, not even my brothers.”

 

She had told herself that what had happened was just a dream, or a hallucination, because nothing else made sense. She hadn’t told _anyone_ \- she knew how Ernesto was talked about in the town with his wolf lunacy; it wasn’t even that she didn’t want to be lumped in with Ernesto. She couldn’t _afford_ to be looked at the same way.

 

“I won’t tell anyone,” Silvia said, “I swear.” Imelda looked askance at Silvia, and Silvia shrugged. “Honestly, even if I told people, they’d probably think _I_ was the crazy one.”

 

Imelda didn’t laugh at that, but she did give Silvia a brief nod of gratitude. “I was coming home one night, from the Valdez’s Ranch. I wanted to see what kind of prices they could give me for woolen thread. I was one my way home, when I saw the wolf. He had a deer, and he dropped it in front of me.”

 

“ _What_?” Silvia said, dropping her rosary to the table.

 

“I tried to walk around it,” Imelda pressed on, unheeding, “But he picked it back up, and dropped it in front of me again.” Her voice trembled, and she hated herself for it. “He didn’t stop until I took out one of my leather knives, and cut off a slice.” It sounded crazy - it _was_ crazy - no normal wolf acted like that! “I threw the meat to some of the stray dogs outside town; and I decided it hadn’t happened.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was devoid of emotion. “But I never told anyone. And I threw the meat away. So maybe I’m lying. Maybe I’m just as crazy as Ernesto is.”

 

Silvia nodded slowly. “I don’t think you are.” She admitted, “So if Ernesto is telling the truth, what then?”

 

Imelda looked up, and held SIlvia’s gaze. “Then I want my husband back. Whatever it takes.”

 

“I know a couple of legends…” Silvia started, and Imelda leaned forward to listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience. I had a bunch of IRL stuff come up. |D For example, I was in a car accident. -100/10, don't recommend. Seatbelts though? Seatbelts are amazing, and I would HIGHLY recommend them. A+. I'm doing okay, just grumpy about it lmao. 
> 
> You may have noticed my other fic updating - that's because that one is fluffy, while this one has been stressing me out. |D I was worried about the pacing; if I should do more background before getting to the wolf stuff, but eventually I figured? It's my fic, and I wanna get to the wolf stuff. ;_; Thank you again for your understanding! 
> 
> As always, concrit is welcome!


	3. Chapter 2

There were a lot of possible cures, if what Ernesto had said was true, but only two that Imelda could do that night. The rest needed prep time, or information Imelda didn’t have, or could cause permanent injury. She wasn’t sure who had decided that driving nails through a wolf’s paw was a valid remedy, but she hoped it wasn’t the one that would be necessary.

 

Instead she was going to go out into the forests and face the wolf, taking with her some of Héctor’s old clothing. She had kept it, of course; some of it could probably be refitted to fit her brothers’, and the rest could be cut down to make clothing for Coco. It was a purely logical choice. She had even washed the clothes out already, more than once, just to make sure that they no longer smelled like him.

 

She hoped that wasn’t a mistake.

 

She had stuffed as much as she could into a sack, her brothers standing guard in the doorway. They hadn’t tried to argue her out of it - they knew her too well for that, and when Oscar had tried to ask if what Coco was saying was true, Imelda had cut him off. If he said it out loud, then it would be... _Real_. As long as no one said anything, as long as they all kept quiet, she could pretend that everything was fine. She could pretend that what she was about to do was completely normal.

 

“You’ll take care of Coco?” Was her only acknowledgement of her plan.

 

Her brothers’ looked at each other, then at her. “Just until you-”

 

“-Get back.” They said, and their confidence warmed her.

 

She hugged them both, then walked out the door, and into the night. Her talk with Silvia, and ironing out the details her plan had taken her long enough that by the time she left, the streets were mostly empty, and she was able to get out of town without incident. She didn’t know what she would say - _could say_ , if she had been stopped. There were a couple close calls, but she ducked into shadows, into alleyways, and kept on until she reached the outskirts of town. There was only a half-moon in the sky, and while Imelda could see the road, she took a brief moment to curse the fact that she hadn’t brought a light. The road was one thing, after all; the woods were quite another. She refused to go back for a light, though; part of her feared that, if she went back, she’d lose her nerve. Instead, she hitched up the bundle into a more comfortable position, and walked briskly out of town.

 

Imelda was not even fifty feet into the forest when she decided to leave the road. After all, she had no idea where the wolf was, but she wouldn’t need to; the wolf had a habit of finding _her_ , and she didn’t feel like getting lost. Finding a decent clearing, she stood, back against a tree, and waited.

 

She didn’t have to wait long, and as the wolf joined her in the clearing, she had to suppress a shiver of fear. His eyes really were the same as Héctor’s; how had she been so blind?

 

She wasn’t being fair to herself, she knew; it would have taken a massive leap of logic to go from “a brown-eyed wolf” to “this wolf is secretly my husband.” It didn’t matter, though, if she knew it in her head that she wasn’t being fair to herself, as it was her heart that kept beating out the rhythm of how-could-I-not-realize.

 

“Héctor,” she said, voice wavering, “It’s time for you to come home.” The wolf took a step closer to her, tilting his head in a way that almost looked like confusion, and Imelda mirrored his steps, stepping further into the clearing - and closer to the wolf. “We miss you.” She said, “ _I_ miss you. We need you back.” The wolf whined, and started to pace, though he made sure to keep one eye on her. “I…” She took a deep breath, “I  _want you home_ , Héctor. _Please_.” Her heartbeat was loud enough that she was sure the wolf could hear it. “I brought you some of your things, I’ve saved them.” She reached in, and grabbed the first shirt on top. It wasn’t anything fancy; she’d had no reason to save it, except… It was the shirt Héctor had been wearing the day Coco had been born. She could still remember the picture he’d made, the way he’d looked at their tiny baby like she was the most important thing in the world.  

 

The wolf had stopped pacing, and was focused on the shirt, tense. Imelda debated getting closer, but she couldn’t make herself move. Instead she tossed the shirt over, and the wolf caught it in his mouth, immediately lying down to smell it. Imelda took that moment to pull out another shirt. The shirt he’d worn at their wedding, and below it, the undershirt he’d worn the night of their wedding. The threw those to the wolf, and her heart broke a little when nothing happened. She had tried to pack the clothing with the most memories attached at the top of the bag, and she hoped she hadn’t made a mistake with that.

 

“ _Please_ ,” she said, ignoring the tears dripping down her cheeks, as she continued to empty the bag. The shirt he’d worn on their first attempt at courting. The pants she’d patched as her first chore as a married woman. The jacket he’d insisted on fixing himself when she’d been laid low by morning sickness. They were not a rich couple by any means, and as a result, every piece of clothing had been used and reused until almost all of them had a story attached, even if just something small. “I... I love you, still. I _want_ you. Héctor, _please_.”

 

She didn’t look up. She didn’t _dare_ look up. As long as she didn’t look -

 

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sound that sounded like a cross between a whimper and a growl, and she forced herself to look up. The wolf was crawling towards her, and she was confused by how… Had he always been that small? Had it been her fear that had caused him to loom larger than imagination?

 

_No._

 

Before her eyes, the wolf was twisting - _shrinking._ Fur was falling off in clumps; chunks of it ripping away from red muscle. She might have screamed, but she couldn’t remember. Pieces of him were coming off like some grotesque piece of rotten meat. She could see his fangs crack open as chunks of his _teeth_ fell to the ground. His extremities were withering, the wolf’s ears fading to husks before falling off. There was so much happening, it was hard to focus on all of it, especially with the noises the wolf was making, as his whimper began to sound more like…

 

Like a human crying out in pain.

 

Running towards the… The _man_ , she fell to her knees, and _prayed_ that it was Héctor underneath the chaos. One look at his face, and she knew. She _knew_. His face was sharper, more angular, his hair longer, his but none of that mattered. Héctor blinked, up at her, a dazed look in his eyes.

 

“...Melda?” He whispered, lifting one hand up to her face. “Dreaming…?”

 

“No, no you’re not dreaming.” Imelda said back, voice hoarse with tears as she took his hand, and brought it up to her lips, kissing his knuckles gently. Around them, all the pieces that had been the wolf were dissolving to a silvery dust, before being gently blown away by the wind.

 

“Missed you.” Héctor said, trying to sit up, even as he was loathe to take his hand back from Imelda. He had scars along his chest; mostly from bullet wounds.They’d all healed, but Imelda still choked back a sob at the thought that Héctor had been shot at. Those scars were what snapped her back to the present.

 

“I missed you too.” She said, “And so did Coco. Come on, let’s get you up and dressed, and get you _home_.”

 

“Coco…” Héctor said, closing his eyes. “How long?”

 

Imelda hesitated. “Let’s get you home first.”

 

Héctor nodded, and Imelda hoped that it was only because of the immediate circumstances that he had acquiesced so easily. Under most circumstances she’d have answered him right away, but she wanted to get home - she wanted to get _him_ home. She wanted him in their house, she wanted to fall asleep and have him still be there, she didn’t want to explain herself if this ended up just being a _dream_. And it felt like a dream; the silver light of the moon, the shadows, the fact that where once had been a wolf, there was now a man…

 

Getting Héctor dressed was harder then Imelda had hoped it would be; he tried to help, but it was obvious that he had no idea what he was doing. He’d tried to button his shirt, but he couldn’t coordinate his fingers properly, and he had almost tripped while trying to get pants on. In another time, it could have been an _intimate_ experience, and while Imelda was getting a good look at his naked form, all she could think of was the scars he carried, and how emaciated he looked. Imelda had had to help him back to the ground while she gathered up the rest of his things, as he had started swaying when he tried to stand on his own. Once everything was gathered up, she helped Héctor back up, holding him close to help him keep his balance.

 

Of all the things she had brought, she had forgotten shoes.

 

But Héctor didn’t complain.

 

He didn’t say anything, really, or make _any_ noise. It was unnerving. The Héctor she knew - the Héctor she’d known - had always made some sort of sound. When he wasn't talking, it was because he was whistling, or humming, or _something_. She found herself wanting to say something to break the awkward silence, but found that anything she thought of saying got caught in her throat.

 

So they walked in silence.

 

There was someone standing with a light right at the border of their town, and Imelda bit her lip, wondering if she was going to have to come up with some sort of explanation. She needn’t have worried; it was one of her brothers. While she could normally tell them apart with ease, the dim light did her no favors, and she found herself looking around for the other one. They didn’t often split up, after all. “Why are you here?” She whispered, wary of waking the rest of town. “Where’s Coco?”

 

“Oscar’s back at home with Coco,” Felipe whispered back, eyes wide as he stared at his brother-in-law. “We flipped a coin. Is that really…?”

 

“Yes.” Imelda said, grateful that her brothers’ had _some_ sense. “Can you help me get him home?” He was heavy, and he was needing a lot of help, thought at least he was _trying_. She could hear him whine with frustration, and she cursed out Ernesto in the privacy of her own mind. The curse became public when Héctor straight up _growled_ at Felipe, when Felipe tried to get close. “Héctor!” Imelda snapped, still trying to be quiet. “That’s Felipe, he’s my brother, he’s _okay_.”

 

“Sorry,” Héctor said, ducking his head in shame, and letting Felipe manhandle him until Héctor was balanced between the two siblings. Hurrying home, Imelda could see that Felipe had questions, but she shook her head. They’d figure things out in the morning.

 

They made it through the empty streets with no problem; it was too late at night for the drunkards, and too early in the morning for the farmers. Oscar was inside the house, waiting up, and when Héctor saw the man, he looked between Felipe and Oscar, and made noise of confusion.

 

“I’ll explain in the morning.” Imelda promised everyone, handing the bundle of clothing to Oscar, and taking off her shoes. She had no idea what to do next, but _Dios_ she was tired.

 

...And the only place for Héctor would be their bedroom. Where she’d slept along the last three years.

 

It didn’t matter. After Héctor had spent that same amount of time sleeping on the ground, she could give Héctor the bed for a night. She had extra blankets in the trunk at the end of her bed; while it didn’t get very cold in winter, night times in Santa Cecilia could be surprisingly chilly. She could sleep on the floor, give Héctor the bed, give him time to get accustomed to having other people in the same space as him.

 

At least, that was her original plan.

 

What actually ended up happening was the Héctor sat on the bed gingerly, where Imelda and Felipe sat him down, and immediately frowned. He was tense, and while they didn’t have the fanciest mattress in town, he was pushing against the stuffing with agitation. She had hoped to give him a break from sleeping on the ground, she hadn’t expected him to find that break _uncomfortable_.

 

“You don’t have to sleep there, if you don’t want to.” Imelda said, deliberately keeping calm, but inside she was frustrated. Not at Héctor, but at the situation. She hoped it was just a temporary thing; she’d _missed_ him. While she hadn’t felt the need to share a bed with anyone since Héctor’s disappearance, she _wanted_ to share a bed with Héctor again. She wasn’t even thinking of lovemaking; she just wanted his warmth, to wake up to his smile, to know that he was _there_.

 

Héctor gave her a grateful smile, before sliding off the bed, and onto the floor. Imelda pulled the blankets out of the trunk at the foot of her bed, and gave them to him, watching as he made a nest of a sort on the ground, and curled into it, watching her. She shooed Oscar and Felipe out of the room, sending them to bed, before changing into her own night clothes, and taking her hair down. Héctor would have - had been in the habit of - commenting as she did her night time rituals. But she bit her tongue; the silence _wasn’t_ Héctor’s fault. Putting out the light, she made her way to her bed. Her - their - room wasn’t that big; it wasn’t hard to find. For a moment, she debated sleeping next to Héctor in the nest he’d made, but as she stood there, contemplating, Héctor had piped up with an, “Imelda, bed.” And she’d collapsed willingly onto the mattress. She’d been willing to sleep on the floor, she _had_ , but it would have hurt in the morning. She wasn’t as young as she once was, after all.

  
But even as tired as she was, she couldn’t get to sleep. It was driving her mad, knowing Héctor was in the room, and yet having no contact with him. Well, at least there was an easy way to fix that; she moved to the side of the bed, and reached a hand down. Apparently she wasn’t the only one desperate for some contact, because Héctor had grasped her hand before she could even ask. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but he was _there_ , and as long as he was still there in the morning, as long as she didn’t wake up to find it was some bizarre dream, she could finally tell Coco: _Your Papá has come home._   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, concrit is welcome. :)


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly introspection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Lot of Stuff has been happening. Sorry about the delay. IDK when stuff is going to Stop Happening, but knock wood it's sometime soon. *insert eye roll emoji* I debated about posting this, or waiting until it was longer. Hopefully I erred in the right direction. |D

_It wasn’t a dream_.

 

That moment seared itself into Imelda’s brain, same as the day she’d first seen Héctor, same as their first kiss as a married couple, same as holding Coco for the first time and thinking that maybe - just maybe - the pain had been worth it.

 

Their hands were no longer entwined; instead, at some point in the night, she’d laid claim to his chest, and she could feel him taking each breath. His hands were over hers, and while he wasn’t holding on tightly, it was obvious that she was his lifeline.

 

Teardrops began to slide down her face. It was… It was _real_.

 

It was real, and she was… She was feeling a lot of things, but she was also hungry. She hadn’t eaten dinner the night before, Of all the _stupid_ things to be feeling-!

 

She didn’t want to get up, she _didn’t,_ but she did want Coco to know her Papá was home. She wanted to get some food into Héctor so he wasn’t the emaciated figure lying before her. She wanted to make him her best pair of shoes. She wanted to shout to the _world_ that Ernesto was a traitor, but she had gotten her husband back _anyway_.

 

Step one was getting up. She tried to reclaim her hand, only for Héctor to grasp on tight, as a frown made its way onto his sleeping face, and he let out a sound that was easily a whimper. “Está bien,” Imelda said, “It’s just time for breakfast.”

 

At the sound of her voice, Héctor blinked blearily, before looking up at her. “Still dream…?” He asked, voice trailing off as he began to take in his surroundings. “Not dreaming?”

 

“No.” Imelda said, wondering with a pang how often Héctor had woken up to forests and loneliness. She pulled her hand away with a sigh; she was just as loathe to break contact as he was. It was easier, this time, though that was mostly because Héctor had reached up, and was wiping the tears off her face, his face a picture of abject misery. She reached up with the hand that had been under her; she’d have to shake out the tingles, but it was awake enough that she could cup his hand to her face. Pulling his hand away from her face, she kissed it, then let it drop. Sitting up wasn’t hard, but she had to stop herself from swinging her legs down off the bed automatically. What kind of welcome would it be if she kicked him on his first day home? Instead, she moved to the other side of the bed, wondering if it was worth having the shop open that day.

 

Even if people didn’t know _exactly_ what had happened, enough people had seen Ernesto’s outburst that maybe she could get away with a closed shop. She turned to go to her dresser, and saw that Héctor had managed to sit up - though it seemed he hadn’t tried standing yet. Instead, he seemed to be kneeling on the floor, and leaning across the bed. His arm were outstretched in front of him, and his head was nestled between them. He was watching her intently, and the lack of expression on his face was unsettling. She tried to ignore it, and instead focus on how she was going to explain everything to Coco.

 

Héctor was just as quiet as she got dressed as he had been the night before when she was changing into her nightclothes. She wasn’t sure what she had been hoping for; for the silence from the night before to be shock? She dressed quickly in practical clothing; just because Héctor was home, and even if she was closing the shop, she still had chores.

 

...Even if her Sunday dress was a bit tempting.

 

She did put a little more effort into her hair, though, tying a ribbon through the braids. Héctor’d always liked tracing the paths they made. Ribbons weren’t cheap, exactly, but they were inexpensive enough that they were the one thing Imelda had been comfortable indulging in. The ribbon she’d picked for that day was a deep blue. It had been a courting gift, and even after Héctor had left - when she’d _thought_ he’d left - it had been too expensive to toss. Once clothed, she turned to see that Héctor hadn’t moved, and was still just watching her. She made her way over, his eyes tracking her every move, until she was sitting on the bed next to where he had stretched out.

 

“Come on, Héctor, we don’t want to keep Coco waiting.”

 

There was a beat of silence, then Héctor closed his eyes. “How long?”

 

Imelda clenched her fist, worrying her skirt as she did so. She didn’t want to answer his question, but he deserve to know the truth. “It’s been a little over three years,” she admitted, forcing her hands to unclench. Héctor didn’t need to think she was angry at _him_. Oh, she _had_ been, but the anger had switched to a more accurate target once she’d found out the truth.

 

“I’m _sorry_.” Héctor said, eyes closing as he bowed his head.

 

“Don’t be,” Imelda said, voice harsh. When he looked up at her, fear in his eyes, she hastened to add, “It wasn’t your fault. You have _nothing_ to be sorry for.”

 

“I forgot.”

 

“You remembered enough to come home. _It wasn’t your fault._ ” She could tell he didn’t believe her. That wasn’t fine, but they had time to work on it. Instead she said, “Coco is eight now; be ready for that.” She paused for a moment, then said, “You know, she always believed you’d come home.” Anything to at least try and alleviate the guilt in his face.  

 

Héctor had perked up at Coco’s name, and he nodded, taking in a shaky breath. “Can I see?”

 

“Yes, of course.” Imelda stood up, smoothing down her skirt as she did so. Then she turned, and held out one hand to Héctor, helping him up. His shirt was still on, though askew - she wondered how much of that was due to him not wanting to let go of her hand in the night. He had kicked his pants off, though, and she had to help him put them on again. He grimaced, face puckering in dislike as he rubbed his hands against the texture of the fabric. He needed a belt, or suspenders, or _something_. She hadn’t been paying a lot of attention the night before, but the clothing hung off of him; and why wouldn’t it? It was his, yes, but it was his from good years.

 

And whatever the three years had been, they hadn’t been good ones; she could count his _ribs_! She would have left him standing there while she fetched the required accessories, but he was still so _shaky._ Carefully she guided him to the bed, and sat him down on top of her mattress. He hadn’t liked it the night before, but it would be easier than trying to help him up from the ground. Luckily she’d saved _all_ his clothes, and she found a pair of suspenders with only a little bit of digging. With them on, the pants were still loose, but at least Héctor wouldn’t have to worry about tripping over the hemlines. Imelda also ended up fussing with his hair, trying to make it look even just a little bit tamed. From above, she could see exactly how wild - and how soft - it looked. Héctor leaned into her touch with a happy sigh, and she made a mental note to play with his hair again sometime in the future.

 

“Are you ready?” She asked, stepping away with an internal sigh of her own. For a moment, his eyes had lit up, and he’d looked... _Comfortable_.

 

Héctor nodded, though he looked nervous, and while he took her hand for help standing, he relinquished the hold once he was up, taking a deep breath, and then a step. Imelda tried not to hover; he was obviously _trying_ but it was still nerve wracking. Worse even then when Coco had been learning to walk. That had at least been a part of the natural order of things, but Héctor _knew_ how to walk. He knew how to walk, to run, to _dance_ … And here he was, having trouble taking a simple step. It was unsettling. She moved to next to him, and held out her hand. He could take this step on his own, but that didn’t mean he had to do it _alone_. He took her hand gratefully, leaning into the contact, as they made their way to the rest of the house.

 

For all that Héctor was leaning into the touch, and doing his best, he almost needn’t have bothered, because as soon as Coco saw him, she was flinging herself at him with a cry of “Papá!” and Héctor fell to his knees to catch her. Imelda couldn’t quite bring herself to leave them alone, so she too knelt down, though with more intentionality then her husband. Héctor was crying, and she couldn’t blame him. She had thought she’d run out herself, but a few more tears trickled down her cheeks as she watched Coco and Héctor interacting. Her brothers’, summoned by the shout, were staring at the group with identical looks of shock, and Imelda was torn between asking them to leave, so they could have private time, and asking them to stay as a witness to the miracle. They made the choice for her, drawing themselves up, and mouthing the word “breakfast” at her before heading towards the kitchen. They weren’t the best cooks, especially when they started to experiment, and they liked to cheat with leftovers, but they make tolerable enough food when push came to shove.

 

“So sorry,” Héctor was saying, going between that and giving Coco kisses all over her face. Coco was _beaming_ , and leaning into her Papá’s touch like it could disappear at any moment. Imelda couldn’t blame her; she was certain that she wasn’t dreaming, but a treacherous part of her heart couldn’t help but ask, “... but what if?” She stamped that thought out. Even if it was a dream, (and it wasn’t, she was sure of it,) she was going to _enjoy_ it. Her dreams usually had Héctor turning his back on her, or leaving before the morning, but Héctor was _staying_.

 

“I sang our song every night while you were gone!” Coco said, forehead pressed against Héctor’s.

 

Héctor frowned, a faraway look in his eyes. “I sang?” He said, haltingly, “I sang.” He repeated, surer than before. “Every night.”

 

Imelda thought of the way the wolf - Héctor - had howled every night. While there had never been a specific melody, the sound had been haunting in its own right.

 

She would have to find a way to explain things to Coco eventually, especially given that her daughter had been there to hear Ernesto’s claims. They would have to also figure out what they were going to tell the town. But all that could wait. Right then all that mattered was Coco’s joy as she looked at her Papá, her unwavering belief in him shining like the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can't quite picture it, I'm seeing Héctor as doing some variation of this pose when he's kneeling at Imelda's bed & watching her dress. 
> 
> ([1](https://78.media.tumblr.com/f863676be123c16cab4904a35260deef/tumblr_pd4l4mgJ1f1qi3wm4o1_500.jpg)) ([2](https://78.media.tumblr.com/81c3e19408fd297e793793a2e312cf07/tumblr_pd4l4mgJ1f1qi3wm4o2_540.jpg))
> 
> Okay, so phrasing it like that sounds weird, but come on - you got some neat pics out of it, right? |D


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domestic fluff followed by Ernesto ruining everything. You know, as he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, sometimes brains are a piece of shit.

The twins had gone all out, and the table was loaded. They had to have seen it, how Héctor’s clothing had fit - or hadn’t - on his frame, the prominence of his cheekbones, the way he trembled. They hadn’t even bothered to set a theme; anything that could be edible was on the table. Coco dragged her Papá to it, Imelda making sure to help keep him upright. When they got to the table, he stared, both at the food, and at the chairs.

 

“Coco, why don’t you pick a seat, and your Papá will sit next to you?” Imelda said, holding her breath. Her heart didn’t break, but it cracked a little as she watched Héctor study the way Coco sat down in her chair, before attempting to follow suit. He fell a little heavier in the chair, like a marionette with it’s strings cut, but at least he’d figured it out. Imelda had sat him down on her bed earlier, it really wasn’t so different, right? Except there she’d guided his movements, directed him on what to do.

 

It was one more tiny thing, but they could manage. She’d _never_ give Ernesto satisfaction. Sitting down on his other side, she squeezed his hand under the table, then began loading up his plate. She decided to stick to meat, at first, just in case he had a bad reaction. She didn’t really know what else wolves ate, honestly; was that all they took in? The problem was… They didn’t have a lot. Meat was expensive, and while they had some pork, filling his plate would mean there was none left for the rest of them. Which was fine, they’d make do. They had other options; beans, fruit, bread...  

 

He was watching her, frowning. Shaking his head, he looked as though he was going to pick up the food with his bare hands before thinking better of it, and swapping their plates. “You”, he said, waving his hands to indicate to both Imelda and Coco, “eat first.”

 

“We have other food, Héctor,” Imelda said, swapping their plates back. “This is yours.”

 

“But…” Héctor said, clearly uncomfortable. “Pack,” he paused, and Imelda could see the struggle in his face. He gestured again at the whole table, tension clear in every line, “pack? This is pack?”

 

“...Family?” Asked Óscar, fidgeting with his fork.

 

“Family,” hissed Héctor, and his head dropped. “Family,” he muttered again, rolling the word around like it was a foreign language.

 

“Family,” Coco parroted, head tilted, and kicking her legs against her chair. Imelda wondered how much of that Coco had actually picked up on; how her song-writer Papá had managed to forget one of the most basic of words, how his fist was clenched under the table, how it shook.

 

Héctor blinked up at her and smiled. Even if it was shaky, it was nice to see a smile from him. “Family eats first,” he said, returning to his first point. Imelda wanted to point out he was family too, but held her tongue. There was no point to arguing semantics. Instead she quickly put some bread on Coco’s plate, and some fruit, and she did the same for herself. Her brothers could serve themselves, and they did so, though they held off on actually eating, following Imelda’s lead.

 

“We’ll eat first,” she agreed, “But we have our own food. This is yours.”  

 

Héctor stared at her, the look just as disconcerting in a human as in a wolf, but he nodded acquiescence, watching both Coco and Imelda warily as they bit into their meal. It wasn’t until their first few bites were swallowed, the twins following shortly after, the Héctor decided to try eating anything, picking up one of the pieces of pork in his hand, and following their lead.

 

“Papá, you’re supposed to use a fork!” Coco said, giving her best Imelda impression.   

 

Héctor dropped the pork like it was burning, and a red flush lit on his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said, staring at the fork with trepidation. He picked it up, clearly panicking as he tried to remember how to hold it in his hand, how to use it properly. Imelda froze, she knew what to do, didn’t she? What to say? It was just a _damn_ fork!

 

It was Felipe who came to the rescue, passing the tray of tortillas. “This might be easier,” he said, and Imelda took them gratefully. Taking the fork from Héctor, she showed him what to do. They weren’t proper burritos, not by any means, but the way he relaxed was evident to everyone in the room.

 

He ate quickly at first, as though worried that the food would vanish. “Easy,” Imelda murmured, “We don’t want you getting sick.” With a nod, he slowed down, though it was also terribly evident that it pained him to do so. The meal after that was otherwise silent. Imelda didn’t know what to say, and she didn’t want to stop Héctor from eating some food, _finally_. The twins stared openly at Héctor, but the atmosphere was too awkward for either of them to ask any questions, and Coco seemed to sense the mood at the table, and ate her breakfast without much chatter.

 

Not that Imelda ever minded her chatter, but Imelda wasn’t sure she could handle answering Coco’s questions. She had no idea what to even tell her, honestly. How to explain that yes, her Papá was home, but she couldn’t say why? It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her daughter - but her daughter was eight. Expecting anything from an eight year old in the realm of secrecy would be unfair the child.

 

She was still debating how to explain things by the time the meal ended, and Coco settled the debate on her own. “Was Papá the wolf, like Ernesto said?” She asked, innocently.

 

Héctor perked up at the name ‘Ernesto’ and Imelda had to bite back a growl of her own. If she managed to her her hands on _that man_!

 

“What makes you think that?” Imelda asked instead, trying to keep her breathing under control.

 

Coco just stared at Imelda, pouting. “I _heard_ him say that, and then you were gone, and then Papà was back.”

 

Imelda’s shoulders dropped. Coco was young, but she wasn’t _stupid_. “You have to promise not to say anything,” she instead cautioned, putting her fork down.

 

“Why not?”

 

Why not indeed… “People might try and hurt your Papá,” she said, clenching her fist under the table. At Coco’s distressed look, she added, “we don’t _know_ if anyone will try and hurt him.” She didn’t want Coco to be afraid of everyone in town; that would be counterproductive, and people would _definitely_ know something was up. “But we want to be careful.”

 

Coco’s eyes widened, and she grabbed at Héctor desperately, holding onto his arms as though he’d vanish if he didn’t. Héctor froze, before leaning down, and nuzzling the top of Coco’s head. “I won’t say anything,” she said, burrowing her face into Héctor’s arm.

 

Imelda tried to ignore the way Héctor looked like he had been trying to lick the top of Coco’s head. She was about to say something when Óscar spoke up; “We’ll all keep it a secret,” he said, learning forward to watch the tableau.

 

“Our lips our sealed,” Felipe said, mirroring his brother.    

 

“Do you promise?” Coco asked, wiping at her eyes.

 

“Of course!” The twins said in unison.

 

And Imelda trusted them.

 

How could she not?

 

Before she could say anything in gratitude, Héctor said, “....Ernesto?” And Imelda’s gratitude at her brothers turned to anger at _that man_. “Ernesto’s alive?”

 

“Why wouldn’t he be?” She snapped before she could catch herself.   

 

The look Héctor gave her was pained, and Imelda shuddered as she remembered the tales Ernesto used to spread.

 

_“I was attacked by a wolf!”_

 

“Héctor?” She asked, “what happened?”

 

“I -” His breath stuttered “He’s alive?” At Imelda’s nod, he sagged, looked at Coco, then back at her. “Later?”

 

“Of course.” Coco look liked she wanted to argue, but Imelda shook her head. Coco hadn’t heard the rumors, she hoped.

 

They ate the rest of breakfast in silence, Coco still clinging, but Imelda couldn’t really blame her. Héctor tried a couple of times to use a fork until Imelda took it - there was no need for him to stress himself out. Not when no one at the table actually _cared_. They just cared that he was _home_.

 

“Coco, can you help your tíos with the dishes?” Imelda asked. Coco frowned, and held on tighter to her Papá’s arm.

 

“I want to stay with Papá,” Coco said, refusing to let go.

 

“I know mija,” Imelda said, cupping one hand to Coco’s cheek. “Papá isn’t going anywhere, he’s just going to be in our bedroom. I promise.”

 

Coco’s glare was mutinous, but she nodded giving Héctor a long hug around the middle before joining her tíos in putting the food away. Héctor hugged her back, though he looked like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his arms.

 

Héctor still needed help walking, and he held onto Imelda like his life depended on it. Imelda couldn’t bring herself to mind - everywhere their bodies touched was another reminder that this was _real_. Imelda wasn’t sure where to seat him, when they got to their bedroom, but he made the decision for her, sitting gingerly on the bed. While he cringed, he refused to move off, shaking his head at Imelda when she tried to ask. “Sleep next to you,” he insisted, even as he treated the bed like he was sitting at the edge of a cliff. Imelda nodded, and turned to the vanity to get her hair brush. She had always loved his hair, even as messy as it ended up, and she wondered if he’d let her brush it.

 

Turning to face him, she had to try hard not to giggle - apparently Héctor wasn’t a fan of clothing yet, it seemed; he’d already managed to pull the suspenders off, and they hung limply on the bed, and he was trying to undo the buttons on the shirt he was wearing. He growled, and then there was a tearing noise as buttons flew all over the room. Héctor stared at the buttons abashed, then looked at Imelda, and let out a small whine.

 

Imelda hurried to the bed and helped with the rest of the buttons. Thankfully it was just one of his normal shirts, there was no history behind it that would have made the ruination of the buttons hurt more than necessary. “It’s okay, Héctor,” she said, folding up the shirt, and putting it on the side table. They’d need to work on that but… It was just a shirt. Holding up the brush she asked, “Héctor, may I?”

 

She really _did_ like playing with his hair. Running her hands through it as they lay in bed, massaging his head while he tried to write music, brushing his hair in an attempt to get it to lie flat. And he’d always return the favor, of course. It was funny; with how much she missed about him, she was finding it was the little intimacies that she missed the most.  

 

He nodded, and she sat next to him, waiting until he tilted his head back towards her. Lifting up the brush, she hoped that the comforting gesture would help ward against the topic they were about to discuss. He melted at her touch, and she was struck once more by the sheer loneliness he must have felt. She was only running a brush through his hair, and yet - !

 

It was Héctor who broke the silence. “Ernesto’s alive?”

 

“Yes.” Imelda’s answer was short, shorter than _Héctor_ deserved, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything else. Not yet.

 

“Good,” Héctor said, shuddering. “ _Good_. Thought…” His head dropped, and a strangled sob came out of his throat.  

 

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Imelda said quietly, leaning forward to press her head into his shoulder.

 

“Thought killed him.” Héctor whispered, turning to face Imelda.

 

Imelda welcomed him with open arms, and he fell into her. She wanted to scream. If Ernesto had died, would that really have been such a bad thing? She squashed that thought immediately. Even if Ernesto deserved to die… Héctor didn’t deserve to be the one to kill him. He _didn’t_ deserve that on his conscience. The _only_ good thing Ernesto had done was tell Imelda where to find her husband, and even _that_ was only necessary because of his actions in the first place.

 

“No, he’s still alive,” Imelda said, adding the “unfortunately” only in her thoughts. “He,” she paused. “How much do you remember?”

 

Héctor stilled, still holding onto her like a drowning man. She couldn’t complain, though; she wasn’t acting any better. It hurt when he sat up, hands ghosting over his stomach. “Pain,” he said, finally, eyes unfocused. “So much. Ernesto right _there_. Fell over.” He closed his eyes. “So much blood. Thought Ernesto died.”

 

Imelda swallowed hard. “Ernesto was injured,” she said cautiously, “but he’s here, and alive.”

 

“See him?” Héctor asked, eyes snapping open.

 

Imelda shook her head, “He’s been arrested. He tried.” She stopped, swallowed, and continued. As much as she hated Ernesto de la Cruz, now that she actually had to explain what had happened, the words were stuck in her throat. “He hurt Coco,” she said, finally. “And while he did, he claimed-” Héctor was staring at her, head tilted, brows furrowed, and she rushed ahead. She didn’t want this to go on any longer then it had to. “While he was ranting, he claimed he was the one who did this to you.”

 

“No.” Héctor said, standing. He was still uncertain, and he could barely take one step, let alone two, but he turned to Imelda as best as he could. “No.” He repeated, voice shaking. “Ernesto wouldn’t.”

 

Imelda stood, and tried to reach out, but Héctor flinched back from her. He managed not to lose his balance, but only just. “He took responsibility in front of the whole town,” Imelda said, pulling her hand back as though she’d been burned. “He _bragged_ about-” she stopped. “He told everyone. I didn’t even know anything had happened to you until then.”

 

Héctor was staring at her, his eyes wild. He almost had a nervous smile, save the fact that too many teeth were showing. She wished he’d say something, _anything_ , but no words left him; only a distressed noise - something more than a whine, but still inhuman. He was rooted to the spot, and while Imelda wanted to go to him, the fact that he’d only _just_ flinched kept her standing in place.   

 

“I thought. He let me think.” Tears were welling up in her eyes, and she wiped them away fiercely. “He let me think you’d _left_.” She hugged herself, curling into the same lonely figure she’d been night after night since the day Héctor stepped on the train. “I didn’t think you were ever coming back.”

 

Héctor staggered back, Imelda rushing forward to make sure he didn’t fall over. “Didn’t leave!” He insisted, “Wanted... _I_ wanted home.” His legs were shaking, and Imelda helped them both to the floor. “I just wanted home.” He said again, staring at the floor.

 

“I’m sorry,” Imelda said, reaching down, and lifting one of his hands. She had used to know every part of him so intimately, and yet there were scars there that she didn’t recognize. Were they new, or had she started to forget what he looked like? She kissed his knuckles gently, before dropping their entwined hands into her lap. “I’m sorry,” she said again, wondering if that could ever be enough.

 

“Ernesto never said?” Héctor asked, tentatively bringing his other other hand to join hers.

 

“Never,” Imelda whispered.

  
“I just wanted home,” Héctor said again, as the dam began to break. “ _I just wanted home_.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concrit always welcome. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit is always welcome. ^_^


End file.
